“Awwww, you’re so booed up it’s nauseating,” Tad taunts, bumping his shoulder with mine.
“Excuse me, weren’t you the one insisting I ride that dick for posterity’s sake?” I remind him. “You cannot be disgruntled when you were pushing for this from the get-go.”
“Fine, fair enough. I’m just jealous anyway. You two have the thing, and I want the thing,” he declares wistfully. “But for real, if he fucks with you again, I’ve already scouted out some excellent places where we can bury him without ever having to worry about him being found. I support your ability to forgive, I am on board too, but I will snatch his soul if things go sideways,” he states matter-of-factly.
I laugh and reach up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Tad hugs me tightly and then moves to the fridge to inspect its contents. “What time do you think you’ll be back? Does your man have a crockpot? I’m thinking something hardy and warm is in store for dinner. Especially if you’re going to spend the day learning about demons.”
“I have no idea, but I give you full permission to go through all the cupboards in search of one,” I offer with a cheeky smile and a shrug. “You don’t have to cook though; I honestly have no idea what time we’ll be back.”
He waves me off. “It’s fine, I don’t have a lot of other things to do around here if you all are gone. Besides, I’m not picking up any interested vibes from this clan of hotties you now run with, so I figure it’s time to show off some skills and see if I can reel anything in.”
“Got it. So, you want me to text you when we’re half an hour away so you can be doing bendy yoga stuff when we get back?” I ask evenly.
He high-fives me. “And this is why you’re my people.”
“I got you, fam,” I announce with a wide grin.
“Spot Conlon is missing out,” Tad declares, like the fictional character from my favorite childhood movie is real.
“Damn straight,” I agree without missing a beat. “Rogan will do though,” I add, as though it’s a hardship I’m willing to shoulder.
“True, wish he was hotter though,” Tad counters, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
“We all make sacrifices,” I agree solemnly.
“Who’s Spot Conlon?” Rogan asks, his broad, well-muscled chest brushing my back as he walks up behind me.
I swallow down the surprised squeak in my chest, and a blush crawls up my neck as I shoot Tad mydon’t you dareeyes. My romantic obsession with a counterfeit Newsie stays between me and Tad.
“Don’t worry about it,” I chirp a little too airily, and Rogan narrows his eyes at me. “You ready to go?” I ask sweetly, refusing to succumb to the demand for answers I see brewing in his gorgeous green eyes. “Let’s do this,” I call out to the rest of the kitchen, clapping my hands like I’m some overzealous sports coach.
“Totally threw him off the hunt,” Tad chuckles under his breath.
“Nailed it,” I sing-song back, tossing him a wink for good measure.
And then I scramble away from Rogan as fast as I can, ignoring all the things I feel in our tether that he wants to do to me to get me talking. Such a filthy slew of emotions that man has.
Yum.
* * *
Prek presses a button on a brass panel, and a buzzing sound fills the late afternoon air. I bounce on my heels, trying to rein in my excitement over the fact that we just rode a ley line to freakin’ Scotland.
Scotland!
There’s a cool drizzle that can’t quite make up its mind about whether it wants to be rain or not, sprinkling down on us, and even though I know my hair is going to reject the level of moisture hanging about in the air, I’m so excited I could scream.
We apparated into a line behind something called Tesco. I got from the size of it and the loading docks at the back that it might be a grocery store, but Rogan wouldn’t let me go confirm my suspicions. No, instead we walked a short ways away to Fenella Street where we’re now standing outside of a stone building, waiting to see if Mr. Muda is going to let us in.
Sadly, I spotted zero kilts on our way here, and I stood next to a group of men talking while we waited at a crosswalk and legitimately thought they were speaking another language until I was able to pick up an English word here and there. To my utter shock, I realized that they were in fact speaking the same language as me, but with a brogue so thick and foreign that I could barely recognize more than three words of what they were saying. Something about a bird, a fanny, and a pint.
Prek presses the buzzer again, and Rogan moves closer to me with the umbrella to make sure I’m fully covered.
“That’s very sweet of you, thank you,” I tell him warmly.
“Yes, very sweet of you,” Marx grumps as he tries to crowd the door to keep from getting wet now that Rogan moved the umbrella so it’s only covering us.
